


In The Trenches

by constellationqueen



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, M/M, Neil is Nathaniel for most of this, Neil kills people that Andrew's trying to protect, Neil wears a dress for most of the fic, it's really not that deep like that's about it, uhhhhhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-08-20 10:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20226133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationqueen/pseuds/constellationqueen
Summary: based on art by (and created with permission from)microollion tumblrbasically: Andrew works for Fox Den, Inc., a bodyguard agency. Nathaniel works for Evermore, doing the dirty work like his father. But now that Kevin's joined the Foxes, Riko just keeps sending Nathaniel after their clients. Chance (or not) encounters and a lot of death followthis is not a long fic. lot's of time is covered very quickly. I was just inspired and wanted to write something (◍•ᴗ•◍)❤





	1. Targeted

North Carolina’s humidity is reaching critical mass, and every breath of Andrew’s feels a little too much like warm water, like he shouldn’t be letting it into his lungs. Sundown didn’t help cool things off, and the breeze that had been blowing through the cracks in the windows has since choked off and left the three of them treading water. If he’d wanted to drown, he would have picked a better location; even he deserves something classier than a shitty black van parked on the side of some shitty two-lane road, lights off to hide better in the dark.

It’ll storm soon. Later tonight or tomorrow, but this slow buildup of airborne swamp water has to produce something destructive – there’s no other option. He just wants to be happily settled in some air conditioning before the sky splits.

Andrew sweeps his eyes up to check on Aaron beside him, noise-cancelling headphones settled over his head and eyes trained on the screens in front of him, and then he pivots to look at Nicky in the driver’s seat, whose hand is caught in his hair as he tries impossibly hard to stay alert.

Three hours have gone by. Something awful twists in the pit of his gut, instinct letting him know that whatever peace they’ve managed to hold is about to be disrupted. “Check in,” he says, returning to his original position, head down and eyes closed, his hands loose between his knees. He focuses on breathing and listening; those are his only concerns right now.

“One,” Dan’s voice scratches through his headphones, and then, “two,” as Matt follows suit. They’re in the building, the closest to the client, and no matter how much Wymack likes to go on about teamwork and making an effort to participate, this mission is on Dan and Matt’s shoulders. If something goes wrong and the client gets injured, it’s their fault. Allison and Renee count off three and four respectively, and their feedback is clearer because they’re closer – outside the building on the perimeter, sweeping circles back and forth to make sure nothing’s been planted. Andrew thinks it’s a pointless maneuver for only two people, that the gap in their patrol leaves a massive opportunity for anyone, but he doesn’t bring it up. Nicky’s five, which at least confirms that he’s still awake, and finally, from a full state away, Kevin and Wymack check in as six and seven. Aaron doesn’t get a number, both because Andrew’s eyes are on him and because he’s tasked with staying entirely focused on the cameras that they have running – so much so that Andrew’s in charge of the audio from everyone’s microphones and comms.

It’s absolutely pathetic that it takes nine people to keep one man alive when it should require only two, and take maybe four for padding on the wealthier clients. But before last year, Fox Den, Inc. couldn’t even manage with eleven people on-sight. Circumstances changed. People died. Kevin bled his way across several state borders and proclaimed he was staying, and then Andrew was convinced to stay, too. Sometimes, when Wymack bribes Andrew with just the right incentive, the whole plan runs smoothly. But usually they only barely manage to keep their clients alive, let alone unharmed. It’s as if their presence alone causes mayhem to kick up from the dust, and Andrew thinks that they would have better luck killing people for money – especially since right now they tend to get people killed and lose money – but the only time he voiced this, he got glared at and overruled. Maybe they’d manage better if they could work as a team, but Andrew’s more interested in keeping his family alive than the client, so shit tends to fall apart when anything gets serious.

Why Wymack hasn’t fired Andrew yet is really anyone’s guess. Probably because Kevin’s favorite mantra is that Andrew’s full of potential but lacking initiative.

Kevin thinks too much.

The venue they’re casing is a small but high-end party in a public building, the room reserved and vetted for by the property owners. The chatter coming through Matt’s microphone is mundane, if more muffled than normal given the dress restrictions of the event. There’s some money talk – in the way that wealthy people talk about money, which is to say there’s conversation about new business ventures and investments and how “overpriced but worthwhile” education is for their children. The conversation makes that dark lake in Andrew’s chest ripple with his anger, but none of the topics raise anything close to concern. There haven’t been any red flags all evening.

And Aaron hasn’t made any motion yet tonight to signal anything amiss on the screens, and there hasn’t been a perimeter breech that Allison and Renee have found, and there’s been no interruption of new information from Wymack or Kevin.

So, why does Andrew still feel like something’s about to go wrong?

He trusts his gut. “One, circle closer to the client,” Andrew instructs, head still down and eyes still closed. The van dips quickly towards the driver’s side and Andrew’s heart drops with it, but he doesn’t move at all. He assumes that it’s only Nicky turning around to look at him – Andrew hasn’t bothered to give orders pertinent to the mission in four… no, five jobs now.

“Something come up?” Dan asks, tone down as the chatter around her sways in and out of Andrew’s hearing, coming in from her headpiece and her suit mic as a unit of sound that only barely lines up and makes sense together.

Of course, Andrew could tell her the whole truth, which is that nothing solid has come to his attention. There’s no evidence that the job is about to go south. Matt is already close to the client. But the strangling snag of his gut has never lied to him before – so much trauma has tuned him to know exactly when it’s coming. “Yes,” he says, which is enough of the truth to assuage her, and doesn’t elaborate.

“Andrew?” God, Kevin needs to not be talking right now. Andrew’s fists clench between his knees. “Did you notice something? What did you hear?”

“I can’t hear anything with you filling up the radio waves.” And really, what a poor fucking design for this part of the plan, but Andrew stops thinking about how Nicky should be solely in charge of communication when he catches sight of Aaron moving, and that jerky motion drags all of Andrew’s attention to his twin.

His head snaps up, and he watches Aaron’s mouth move in a slow, incredulous way, though he can’t hear him at all given the chaos that suddenly erupts through Andrew’s headphones. He rips them off and drops them, welcoming the bang of silence through his head. With the way Aaron slumps in his chair, there’s no way the client is still alive.

“What the fuck just happened?” Nicky asks, and Andrew would bet it’s into the comm system as well, but he’ll just bog down the channel, since that’s what everyone else is asking, too. “Shit.” He moves like he’s about to bail from the front seat, and Andrew’s not sure if Nicky’s thinking about running inside or coming around the van to join them in the back, but he’s not taking chances.

“Stay put, Nicky. He’s dead.” Andrew says it with a sigh.

Nicky swears again, but he stops acting like he’s leaving.

Andrew’s slow to stand up, left leg braced out so that he doesn’t have to rush to find his balance. It’s been a long night, and it was all for nothing; now all that’s left is figuring out what the fuck happened. Aaron pulls off his noise-cancelling headphones and tosses them to the lip of a desk in front of him, and Andrew takes a step and a half to come up behind him.

“Rewind it,” he says. “Show me.”

Aaron doesn’t move right away, and their synced sluggish responses make Andrew wonder if the damp air has become something thicker without them noticing, or if they’re both starting to wonder what the point of them doing this is. It feels rote, so Andrew doesn’t rush Aaron into moving. Eventually, Aaron leans forward and rewinds the tape.

When the recording starts to play, all Andrew sees is boring rich white people milling about in clean-cut fashion. He finds their client in the upper corner of the main screen, and the middle of the right screen; Matt is half-visible in the main screen and gone in the left, and Dan is invisible in all three. He watches the main screen, sees Dan come in from the bottom, casually slipping through the crowd with a mellow urgency that no one picks up on. And then the client just drops.

No obvious killer.

Well. Shit.

“Again,” he says, eyes staying on the screen even when Nicky decides to scramble between the front seats and join them.

Once more, Aaron rewinds the tape. Andrew delegates them each a screen. “Watch the top left corner only,” he says, because now they need to find whoever killed their client and lost them more money and reputation. They go through until Aaron stops the tape and rewinds again, and again until Andrew stops him. “There.” He points at the figure, the one he noticed last time but this time is sure of.

“How can you tell it’s her?” Nicky asks, leaning closer to the screen as if proximity will make the pixels any more clear, as if it will make the cutting silhouette in the black dress and close-cut curly auburn hair turn around and show her face. “She’s so far away from him.”

As if that hadn’t been Andrew’s first hesitation in picking her out. “Watch her hand,” he says, and moves aside as Aaron rewinds the tape one last time to watch. A second before their client crumples, the woman raises her arm, fingers shaped like a pistol aimed at their client, and pulls it back like it’s been fired. There’s no weapon in sight, but their client dies anyway.

When they get back to Columbia, they’ll have to comb through all of the video footage to look for any other occurrence of the woman throughout the night, but for now they have authorities to deal with, and then Andrew is going to start drinking.


	2. Identified

It’s a slow night at the upscale club – a Sunday filled with dim lights in several hues, plush chairs, and deep rugs. Most of the crowd is surfing between the ages of forty-five and sixty, though there are a few extremes; most of the people bobbing in below the scale are pretty young women laughing at jokes he doubts are funny. He also doubts they’re actually _with_ the men whose arms they’re hanging on, since their etiquettes read more like escorts and less like those of a girlfriend, fiancé, or wife. There are no men his age, but he’s not worried about blending in.

This is Nathaniel’s second time here, and he would wonder if Riko was sending him to relive trauma, but the circumstances tell him that that’s just an added bonus. The first time, the club had been busier. It had been a Friday, two hours before last call, and the floor had been packed. None of the fancy rugs and chairs had been here, and everyone was dancing. Nathaniel had been stuffed between bodies, the man who was meant to be teaching him instead using the opportunity to find out just what Nathaniel was packing under the dress he insists on wearing to jobs. All it had taken was a quick knife to the man’s inner thigh, and Nathaniel had left him to bleed out while he made his way back home.

He’s no one’s shadow tonight, and he won’t get in trouble this time when someone ends up dead.

Over a month has slipped through his fingers since he took out his last target, and he feels like he’s been held on retainer, given the target tonight has one glaringly obvious similarity to the last. So Nathaniel knows exactly why Riko is sending him out again – both were under the care of Fox Den, Inc.

Kevin Day is a Fox now, healing up behind a smokescreen of cheap clients and untalented coworkers. Without a doubt, Riko is hoping that Nathaniel will run into Kevin on one of these missions, and that he’ll be able to get a shot off or draw a knife before Kevin can stumble his way back to Riko with a gun in his hand. Nathaniel doesn’t personally think Kevin will ever do that – he thinks that if Kevin ever makes it back to Riko, it’ll be with his tail between his legs – but Kevin is a tome of knowledge for the Foxes, and no one at Evermore wants to listen to what Nathaniel thinks, anyway.

Nathaniel knows everything there is to know about the Foxes. He knows a lot about most of the agencies up and down the east coast, but Riko became obsessive when he learned where Kevin washed up, and that meant Nathaniel had to do his research, too. He has the members’ information memorized, from their full names to their family members to their phone numbers. He knows their histories, and therefore their weaknesses. He’s considered toying with them on multiple occasions, both to give Kevin anxiety and to create some modicum of amusement for himself, but he’s not willing to risk having too much fun lest it result in an incomplete job and a visit from Lola.

He doesn’t need any more scars.

As it is, a good portion of the mutilation he’s suffered is broadcast loud and clear when he’s in his work clothes – a black slip dress with an open back and slits up to his thighs. The turtleneck collar and solid front hide the largest and most intimate scars – Lola likes to think Nathaniel’s chest is for her, as compensation for her unrequited infatuation with his father, and Riko likes to prove her wrong. Nathaniel’s given up on looking in the mirror at this point, unless he needs to fix himself up for a job. All he has to do is behave, and he won’t get hurt. That’s the deal that’s been carved into him since childhood.

The black heels that complete his outfit are the only inconvenience, though he’s made himself flawless at working in them. He’d still prefer to be barefoot, even at the risk of having his toes trodden on. But for now, they stay on.

Nathaniel takes a sip from his sparkling water and sways through the crowd, lips curled delicately, eyelashes darkened with mascara and dipped low as he avoids the gazes of anyone who thinks to look at him too long – they’re not getting any distinguishing features from him except the bright shock of his hair and the unsettling mess of his skin. Tonight, and every night, he exists only as a passing question, a curiosity burned into the minds of everyone in the room – a riddle with no solution. He sticks out because he’s short, androgynous, and alone, but no one will think to put blame on his shoulders when the biggest question they’ll have about him is whether he’s a man or a woman. That debate will be just muddled enough for the cops to lose interest.

It’s a skill that’s taken years to develop, but he’s more than satisfied with where he’s at now. He can hide even in thin crowds, and he uses that knowledge, that experience built from failures, to get him closer to his target without cutting a straight line. Success comes down to keeping near women, moving his body like them, but never straying too far into their circles. It comes down to knowing where the cameras are and ducking in and out of them enough to be there but not, to seem like a person who isn’t aware of their existence at all, but to never show his face.

One of the Fox’s bodyguards – a short but muscular woman with strikingly short hair and a piercing set of dark eyes – if off to Nathaniel’s right; he recognizes her from last time, and he wonders how much it will affect her standings in the Fox Den when their client is killed on her watch again. The other bodyguard is further away, in a better vantage point for watching. Another woman, though she’s the opposite – ghostly pale from this distance, with her mid-length hair pinned out of her face. Neither of them really have the blending in part of their job down, but maybe they’re doing that on purpose – standing out so that no one approaches them and causes a distraction. It’s not going to make a difference. Nathaniel doesn’t need them distracted to do his job.

He moves closer to his target, heels clicking against the hard floor in a beat that gets lost among the mild music playing softly over the speakers and the similar sounds of the other people at the party. The fabric of his dress slips around and between his thighs as he moves, and more than once he has to give a flirty wink and a hand kiss to a man willing to touch without permission. He would rather slit their throats, but that’s never been an option. Sometimes, he even has to go along with their desires. But tonight he’s hunting, and that’s the only time he’s allowed to make his own decisions, to live in his own skin in a way of his choosing. It’s the only time he’s allowed to say no.

The target is just up ahead, a man nearly twice Nathaniel’s age mingling with a group of peers and their dates. It’s so easy to swing into his circle unnoticed, slice his throat, and swing out. Three motions – five, including the unsheathing and re-sheathing of the knife – and the man bends double and then drops, and his bodyguards are too far away to make a difference until Nathaniel’s swept up in the crowd and getting spun easily across the floor. He’ll leave now, while the murmurs and confused exclamations are still only centered around the casualty.

But the door of the club slams open, and bodies part away from the wide shoulders of the man approaching a now motionless Nathaniel, who’s far too interested in this turn of events to start running. Nathaniel recognizes the man who stalks closer. He has no doubt that Andrew Minyard, unpolished gem of the Foxes and the hook around the great Kevin Day, has figured out a thing or two of his own.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Andrew says, coming to a stop an uneven distance away, his flat brow a lie to the tension in his body, like a bomb boxed in wrapping paper. Nathaniel wonders how long it takes to get Andrew so wound up that his face cracks – wonders if trying to find his fuse would be worth the trouble.

“It’s not.” Nathaniel doubts that it’s any sort of assurance, but it does prove Andrew right, which could be soothing enough. He’s not being sent off on random assignments; Riko is targeting the Foxes, and with Nathan’s leash held by Ichirou, and Lola firm in her lust for Nathan, Riko’s left with the son. And Nathaniel has a bit of a grudge of his own. Fuel to an already blazing fire. He’ll burn up eventually, even without the possibility of Andrew putting a gun to his head.

Best to not risk that tonight, though.

He reaches between his thighs and pulls out his gun, smirking as Andrew tenses, but Nathaniel just points the weapon up and fires a shot. He could have aimed at Andrew, probably could have shot him dead, but Nathaniel only kills his targets, unless outside casualties are unavoidable. The moment Riko aims Nathaniel at Andrew, things will be different, but until then Andrew gets to live.

The chaos that had been building crescendos with the shot – people scream and the nearest of them run, trying for a straight line but ending up in manic zags and half circles, because panicked people are no better than panicked sheep. Nathaniel puts his fingers to his temple and salutes Andrew with a mocking smile before stepping backwards and letting the crowd carry him away.


	3. Questionnaire

Andrew’s getting rapidly more bored with swanky places, even if it means that – somehow, still – their clients are affluent and willing to pay. He’s tired of rich people always running through the motions of proving how rich they are in ways that don’t help anyone. And he’s also tired of being jealous of the sheer amount of wealth in this room.

“You look a little lonely,” comes a voice to his left, and because no one ever approaches him in places like this, Andrew has a good fucking idea who it is before he turns. “Will a drink help?” Nathaniel – Andrew knows his name now, after they caught his face on camera last time and Kevin has _such_ an interesting and not-frequently-enough mentioned past – is at the bar just a few feet from Andrew’s elbow, leaning back against the lip of overhanging wood and offering a glass of clear liquid.

“It won’t.” He could also make a point in saying he’s not lonely, that he would prefer to do his job in silence, but he doubts Nathaniel would walk away now that Andrew’s engaged him with both a look and a couple words.

With a shrug, Nathaniel pulls the drink back and takes a sip from it himself, maybe to prove that it wasn’t poisoned, but Andrew isn’t interested. “Shame,” Nathaniel says, setting the glass down on a napkin. “I’ll buy you one if you change your mind.” He’s dressed impeccably again – dress exactly the same except this time it’s velvety green instead of black, eyelashes boldly framing his bright eyes, lips redder than could possibly be natural. Andrew’s eyes skim down and he wonders where Nathaniel could have possibly hidden the gun from last time. When his eyes finally reach the floor, Andrew notes that Nathaniel’s shoes are different this time, too; they’re not as high, and they’re gold.

Andrew looks back to Nathaniel’s face, meeting those cool blue eyes that haven’t stopped watching him since he let Andrew know he was there. “Dressed a little on the nose tonight, are we?” Most of the other partygoers are robed in green as well, but they’re all several stages more drunk than the sober Nathaniel who’s managed to inch a foot closer. “It’d be easy to mistake you for a Leprechaun.”

Nathaniel laughs, and it sounds genuine and caught off-guard. It’s a little too ugly to be something scripted – a bit wheezy and uneven, instead of pretty and soft. “Are you calling me short?” He finally manages, one hand splayed over his chest. “_You_?”

If he keeps up this conversation, Andrew’s soon to get an earful for talking to the opposition from Dan, who has swapped places with him tonight and is now monitoring the microphones. But he’s had a lot of practice tuning people out, so he won’t even have to turn off his piece. “Our heights aren’t mutually exclusive.” They’re both short. Andrew being two or three inches shorter doesn’t take away the fact that Matt could use Nathaniel’s loose curls as an armrest.

Nathaniel’s head falls to the side, an interesting shape taking over his mouth with his drink halfway there. “You’re so hard to read.” It sounds honest, a little frustrated, and sort of awestruck.

Good, Andrew thinks. It took him years to perfect the flat façade he presents to the world, years to learn how to perfectly protect his emotions from the people who want to use them against him. Keeping the flat face is also easier when he’s surrounded by unimpressive idiots. But Nathaniel – neither unimpressive or an idiot – is right _there_ and seemingly not interested in going anywhere else, so this is going to be a problem. “Penny for my thoughts,” he says, both as an answer to Nathaniel and a solution to keeping their client alive. “Are you going after our clients because of Kevin?”

For a moment, Nathaniel simply continues to watch Andrew, eyes tightening into slits while he raises his glass and drinks, clearly considering the offer, weighing the benefits for him and the benefits for Andrew. But really, it’s just an exchange of information, and Andrew’s not sure either of them can deal enough damage with open-ended questions to wind up dead by tomorrow. Even if Nathaniel’s a Raven. And it’s apparent Nathaniel comes to this conclusion as well, because he sets his drink aside and regards Andrew seriously, an expression Andrew greatly prefers to the whimsical smile Nathaniel had been sporting when he’d first made himself known at the bar.

“What are the rules?” he asks.

That’s smart, and Andrew has to admire how quickly Nathaniel caught on to what Andrew was suggesting. Clearly this is a trade, and it would be foolish to show up without knowing how to barter. “You have to be honest. You can opt not to answer a question, but then you have to walk away, and the next time I see you, you have to answer me.”

“Or what?”

Andrew shrugs. It’s not life or death. “Or you lose.” But he’ll lose everything, from Andrew’s willingness to share, to his current lack of interest in taking Nathaniel out of the building and as far away from the client as possible.

Nathaniel smiles. “Is there a way to win?”

Of course that’s all he cares about. “Answer my question.” This isn’t a game meant for winning – it’s created for mutual loss. Andrew knows that nothing comes free, and he’s more than confident that Nathaniel understands the barter system well enough to play. But there’s no winning, there’s only deciding how much you’re willing to lose.

A smile pulls its way across Nathaniel’s face, too broad to be comfortable, and he runs his fingers through shiny red curls that bounce back into place along his forehead. “In a way,” he says, and Andrew pulls up the question he asked back to the forefront of his mind. “I’m going after my targets because that’s where I’m being pointed. My boss is the one who wants to go after Kevin.”

“Riko Moriyama,” Andrew clarifies, not willing to have any pause to let Nathaniel feel that this question has been fully answered. The knowledge that Nathaniel himself doesn’t have a personal grudge to settle is… reassuring.

“Oh, someone’s been spilling secrets, has he?” Nathaniel laughs, short and mirthless. “Yes. Riko holds my leash. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t also love to see Kevin fail for once, but I am saying that I don’t have a say.”

So it really is as unforgiving as Kevin had said – masters and violence and no questions asked. He watches Nathaniel’s eyes and wonders just how much worse it all is for him – Kevin, at least, was touted around as a member of the family. And maybe Andrew shouldn’t care, because Nathaniel is, for all intents as purposes, the opposition, but he does care.

He also wonders how much of tonight is orchestrated by Riko, and if he should be a little more cautious about questions asked and answers given. Does Riko dictate everything Nathaniel does just to keep himself out of the line of fire, or is this the only taste of freedom Nathaniel gets?

Nathaniel tilts his head, lips turning like he’s thinking of something to say. “Why are you here now? The last two times you’ve been in the surveillance van.”

“Because I don’t understand you,” Andrew admits, as honest as honest can be. It’s strange to him that Nathaniel is asking questions that don’t necessarily benefit him, like he’s just playing along for entertainment instead of information. “Kevin’s told me stories, and I want a second opinion.” He figured he would be able to talk to Nathaniel, yes, and it’s evident that Nathaniel figures that out, too, when he raises an eyebrow. “Because I noticed you the first night and couldn’t figure out why we’d only caught you on camera a few times. Because you had the chance to kill me last time and you didn’t.” He wants a cigarette. “Everything about this job is boring, but you’re… puzzling.” A distraction. Interesting.

“And you think you can solve me?” Nathaniel asks, amusement coating his tongue.

Andrew would shrug, if he was willing to give that much away. Words will have to suffice. “Every puzzle is solvable, given enough time.” Even ones without a reference picture.

Nathaniel hums. “And what makes you think you have that kind of time?” He looks like he’s enjoying himself, which means it’s time to flip the tables back around.

“How long have you worked for Riko?”

Nathaniel’s smile drops instantly. “I’ve been Riko’s since I was eight.”

Judging by Nathaniel’s appearance, that puts the length of time at over a decade. But the way Nathaniel worded that sits terribly in the air between them, emboldened by the tightness of Nathaniel’s fingers on his glass and the shift in his expression. “Been Riko’s?” Andrew echoes.

“What, Kevin didn’t tell you?” Nathaniel scoffs and takes a drink, his posture immediately slipping back into something relaxed and unconcerned, though Andrew doesn’t believe it for a second. “And of course you just took his experience as universal. Or you just didn’t care about anyone other than the poor baby bird who fell out of the nest.”

Andrew’s had enough of this; as much as he would love to sit here all night and try to parse out Nathaniel’s acting abilities, they don’t have that kind of time. “Stop acting superior and just answer the question.”

That doesn’t get the reaction Andrew wants. Instead of answering, Nathaniel hums, eyes moving away over the crowd. He doesn’t focus on anyone for too long, but it seems evident that he’s avoiding looking at Andrew. “No, I don’t think I will. You wanted to solve me – so figure it out for yourself.” His eyes flit back to Andrew, and they’re crinkled at the corners with a smirk that doesn’t touch his lips.

Well, that’s just rude. But Nathaniel technically answered the question, even if he didn’t provide clarification, so Andrew can’t claim evasion or deny him his turn. He gestures his concession, and finally Nathaniel’s lips curl.

“Why haven’t you left Fox Den, yet?” Oh, he just has all the good questions, doesn’t he? Despite that, he doesn’t seem too interested in the answer, turning away from Andrew again to keep his eyes on the crowd. Is he looking for someone or just avoiding looking at Andrew? If the latter, then why? The more time Andrew spends with Nathaniel, the more questions he has.

Andrew’s starting to wish he had a drink. “Where else am I supposed to go?” He’s not trained in this shit, just good at it because of his general stubbornness and perfect memory. And Wymack lets Aaron and Nicky stay, too, which is the only reason Andrew conceded to joining in the first place.

Nathaniel scoffs. “Anywhere. Literally anywhere. You’re smart, strong, talented. Anyone would take you in, and you could actually thrive somewhere else.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know everything about you that Riko does, and Riko’s knowledge is damn near limitless.” Clearly, he feels passionately about what Andrew very surely isn’t doing with his life. “He’s got eyes and ears everywhere, all the time.”

That makes Andrew testy, though he doesn’t display the emotion physically, maintaining a casual exterior even though he’s now more suspicious of Nathaniel’s agreement to the game. “Even here?” Andrew doesn’t care how much Riko already knows about him; he’s already come to terms with most of it, and dealt with the rest. Anything that sees the light of day can be dealt with when it happens – emotional fallout and all. Thankfully, Riko himself has never been much of a threat to Andrew. Sure, he has information, but he kills through other people. Andrew knows that the moment he’s in a room with Riko, alone or otherwise, he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“You haven’t answered me,” Nathaniel says, which is as good as a yes to Andrew’s question.

Andrew’s fingers itch for a cigarette, and his lungs wouldn’t mind one, either. “Because Wymack has a job for Aaron and Nicky, too,” if Nathaniel knows all about Andrew, there’s no way he’s not up to speed on his twin and cousin. “No one else was willing to take on so many rookies at once, and without asking any questions.” And then, because he’s not going to give Nathaniel time to come up with a retort, he presses, “Why do you wear a dress on your assignments?” It’s been bothering him since the first time they met, because it seems impractical. Dan wears suits when she needs to dress up, and while Allison refuses to, she’s always partnered with people carrying heavier weapons. Nathaniel had pulled a handgun from his thigh, and Andrew hadn’t seen it. Pants have pockets, shirts can be worn baggy, flat shoes have more space along the sides of the feet – all of those allow for weapons concealment. Hell, Andrew has seven knives and a handgun on him right now, and no one except a professional would be able to call him on it.

Nathaniel doesn’t answer right away, instead moving his eyes back to the crowd, his gaze like skipping stones bouncing from face to face, appearing to never linger long enough to take in any real information about their appearances. But Andrew doubts that that’s the case at all; there’s no way Nathaniel isn’t constantly cataloging everything around him.

A minute passes, and then another, but Andrew doesn’t press for an answer – both because he’s not impatient and because Nathaniel still hasn’t walked away or tapped out. Per the rules of the game, he must still be intending to answer. Finally, he tips the rest of his drink back and look Andrew in the eye. “Because I know how to move in it. And because it’s distracting.” He sets his empty glass on the bar and walks away.

Andrew watches him go, noting that nothing about him is trying to be feminine – he just happens to be wearing a dress. Nathaniel’s answer mulls over slowly in Andrew’s head; he doesn’t feel like he can take his eyes off of Nathaniel, even when he gets further away and more obscured by the crowd. He wonders if this is going to be a problem, or if it’s simply something he may have pursued if he wasn’t… him. And then there’s an uproar behind him, and swearing over his earpiece, and Andrew… god. Fuck him if he doesn’t smile just a little bit.

Distracting indeed. What an interesting, cocky bastard.


End file.
